Work Text:
i.
The winter that followed Daenerys Targaryen’s death, Jon Snow’s exile, and Bran the Broken’s elevation to the Iron Throne had been harsh, if shorter than many had predicted, but it was not only the cruel weather and impossibility of sailing that had delayed Yara Greyjoy in accepting the Queen in the North’s invitation to visit her at Winterfell.
“Lady Greyjoy,” said Sansa Stark, greeting Yara as she dismounted and unwound the scarf that had been muffling the lower half of her face; it was early spring but the North was still bitterly cold, though at least without the icy winds that whipped across the islands, freezing you to the bone. “I am honoured by your visit.”
Honoured. Yara managed to turn her scoff into something between a cough and a laugh. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Not so long ago, when she had still blamed the Starks for Theon’s death, and when the Dragon Queen’s defenestration had been a sore spot, Yara would have been unable to bring herself to acknowledge Sansa Stark’s crown.
A brutal winter on Pyke, with her people looking to her to provide the better future that she had promised had provided a measure of perspective: whether Yara understood it or not, Theon had loved the Starks, and a half-serious flirtation and the dream of a crown on her own head was no basis for a prolonged period of grief for a deposed queen that in truth she’d barely known.
“We have food, warm rooms, bedding for your horses-” Sansa began.
“You go ahead,” said Yara over her shoulder to those few riders dismounting behind her, before turning back to meet Sansa’s gaze.
Sansa inclined her head, acknowledging Yara’s silent request. She instructed her retainers to see to the horses and make the Ironborn comfortable up at the castle. “I shall see to Lady Greyjoy,” she said, gesturing for Yara to follow her. “This way.”
Sansa led Yara to a small, unassuming door in the castle wall, guarded by a stone direwolf. Once inside she lit a torch; the flickering flames reflected in her eyes and picked out the lighter tones in her reddish brown hair.
Yara reached out to take the torch. “I can take-”
The Queen in the North arched an eyebrow, and Yara dropped her arm and looked away, huffing out a breath.
“Follow me,” said Sansa, “and mind your footing, these stairs are crumbling in places.” Yara nodded, and they began their descent into the crypt of House Stark. The first monuments that greeted them at the bottom were little more than vaguely man-shaped rocks, worn away by the ravages of time. “My great-grandfather ten times over,” observed Sansa, gesturing with the torch, “or thereabouts.”
As they continued the statues began to look more like men, gaining a nose here, a brow there, a pair of hands holding a sword, but to Yara’s eye they all looked like the same man: a stern, unyielding Northern Lord, a neverending Ned Stark.
That had been a recurring nightmare of young Yara’s in the weeks after old Lord Stark had taken Theon, until Euron had thrashed the nightmare, or at least Yara’s willingness to admit to it, from his niece.
They reached a monument to a maid, the first that they had passed. “My Aunt Lyanna,” said Sansa, perhaps sensing Yara’s unspoken question, perhaps just wanting to fill the echoing silence. “My father insisted that she was buried here, it has not typically been an honour afforded to the daughters of my House.”
“What of their queen?” asked Yara. Sansa made a noncommittal sound, and they moved on to Eddard Stark’s resting place. Yara dragged her heels to give Sansa a moment; she knew the pain of losing even a shit father like Balon Greyjoy. She stared intently at her own boots until she heard Sansa exhale. “Come on, then.”
The statues that followed were both new, having been carved after the Starks had retaken Winterfell from the Boltons.
Theon had spoken of Robb Stark so often that Yara felt as though she’d known him too. In the torchlight it was easy to imagine his hair the same red as Sansa’s, the stone direwolf at his feet had been carved with its lip curled into a snarl. She half expected the Young Wolf to step out of stone and into life and demand to know how Yara could have let Theon die, how could she have been so careless with her little brother’s life?
Yara desperately wanted to tear her eyes away from the judgemental stone gaze of Robb Stark, but she couldn’t bear to see what came next.
“We can come back later,” said Sansa, reaching out in the gloom and squeezing Yara’s hand.
“No.” Yara pulled her hand free, she never could stand pity. She took a few steps forward, and behind her Sansa raised the torch so she could see properly, and just for a second Yara couldn’t breathe. Whoever had carved Theon’s likeness into stone had captured him well: that shit eating grin was almost as punchable in stone as it had been in flesh and bone, and he had been carved wearing kraken armour, not unlike that which Yara wore now.
“On the Iron Islands,” said Yara, “we give our dead to the sea.”
“After the battle the bodies had to be burned. In case, you know…” Sansa trailed off, perhaps because she didn’t want to think about those days, or perhaps to avoid drawing attention to the fact that Yara hadn’t been there. “I understand if you feel I should have sent his bones back to Pyke.”
“I don’t,” said Yara flatly. She looked to where Robb Stark’s bones rested, next to Theon for all eternity. She looked to the line of long dead Stark lords, and to the very much living Queen in the North. “Theon belongs here. I don’t have to like it, I don’t have to understand it, but my brother loved your family, and he loved this place. He would have wanted to rest here.”
“Thank you,” said Sansa plainly.
“It looks like him,” observed Yara. “These things usually don’t.”
“The stonemason knew Theon when he was growing up here,” explained Sansa. “I think that’s why I still want to slap that stupid smirk off his face.”
Yara laughed, feeling the knot in her chest loosen. “What was he like, Theon, back then?”
“He was-” Sansa paused, as if searching her memory, or diplomatically deciding what to omit “-proud, sometimes arrogant, he could be a bully. He was charming and handsome, but not so much of either as he believed. He was kind when he thought no one was looking. He played make believe games with Arya and Bran long after the rest of us had grown bored, he practiced dancing with me even though he hated every second of it. He tormented the prettier maids in a way I was too young and foolish to understand or hate him for. Robb loved him with his whole heart, and I think Theon loved him just as hard, and I will forever wish that it had been enough.”
“Thank you,” said Yara, ”for- for taking care of my brother.”
ii.
Yara broke the surface of her bathing water and scrubbed her hands through her soaking wet hair. Her first truly hot bath since the onset of winter - those hot springs were a miracle - almost made the journey to Winterfell worth it alone.
She rose, dried herself, and donned a leather tunic, breeches and boots. She looked to where her breastplate was hanging and decided against it; appearing in armour at her own welcome feast would send the wrong message.
Winterfell’s stripling of a maester announced her entry to the Great Hall. “Yara Greyjoy, Lady of Pyke and Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands.”
Yara winced, she kept meaning to have that title changed. Dagwyn noted her entry and rose, attempting to drag his fellows with him, Tyl was stuffing an entire capon into his mouth, and Edd was downing a flagon of ale. Yara waved them off: enjoy yourselves.
The Queen in the North descended from her high table and crossed to Yara. “You must forgive me-” she said, taking Yara’s arm.
“Must I?”
“Your visit gave me an excuse to stage a feast.” The hall was full, the Northmen in attendance far outnumbering Yara’s few Ironborn, the wine and ale flowed freely, and the tables were laden with loves, wheels of cheese, and roasted meats and vegetables. “It has been a hard winter, and our people need something to look forward to, don’t you think?”
Yara looked around as Sansa guided her to her seat next to the queen’s own, and servants filled her goblet and piled her plate high. “Harder for some than for others, it seems.”
If Sansa took offence she didn’t show it. “The recent thaws have only just made the Kingsroad passable again, and these are the first fruits of reopened trade with the Riverlands and Vale.”
“Your Grace,” said Yara, gritting her teeth a little, “as you know I came here to say a final goodbye to my brother, but I would welcome the opportunity to discuss trade with you.”
Sansa’s gaze cut sharply to Yara, and she was reminded of one of the truisms of the new world order: the Queen in the North is cleverer than you.
“I did not think the Ironborn believed overmuch in trade?”
Yara took a gulp from her goblet, which a servant had thankfully filled with ale rather than wine. “That is something I hope to change.”
“Let us discuss it after we eat,” said Sansa, and they made polite smalltalk while Yara tried not to betray how much she was enjoying having a meal that wasn’t nine tenths salted fish.
Sansa told tales of the mischief her brothers (Theon implicitly included) and sister had gotten into at similar feasts, while Yara spoke about how Theon had been a terrible baby and how his sister’s company had often been the only thing that would make him stop wailing and screeching, much to the irritation of five year old Yara.
Eventually the queen stood and announced her intention to retire for the night. Those of her subjects who weren’t asleep or unconscious interrupted their dice games, arm wrestling, and drunken gossip to send up a ragged cheer. Yara’s own men had either blacked out after drinking yards of Northern ale, or were busy teaching axe throwing games to incredulous Northmen; she grinned and left them to it.
Yara followed Sansa up the stairs to the queen’s solar, where the windows looked out on a section of Winterfell’s walls that had not yet been rebuilt after the battle with the wights. Sansa poured a goblet of wine and handed it to Yara, who could not help but notice that she did not take one herself. Perhaps a not insignificant part of being the cleverest person in the room was also being the soberest person in the room. Yara took a sip, the wine was a fine Arbour Gold, and set it aside.
“So...” said Sansa, leaving a hanging silence for Yara to fill.
“When I swore fealty to the Dragon Queen-” Sansa could not entirely keep her feelings about Daenerys from her face “-I promised that the Ironborn would give up reaving and raiding.”
“A vow that Daenerys could not even keep herself,” said Sansa bitterly. “Nor have you, I have had reports of Ironborn raiding the fishing villages along my shores.”
“As you noted yourself, Your Grace,” said Yara, “it was a hard winter and my people had to eat. Before my uncle drove Theon and I into exile and into Daenerys’ arms-” Yara winced internally at her poor choice of words “-I had promised my people a more peaceful future where those who wished to farm or fish could do so, and they would not lose quite so many sons to the sea, and that is a promise that I mean to keep.”
Sansa pursed her lips, as though at least considering it. “If it is trade that you’re interested in, why not reach out to the Southern Kingdoms?”
“I hear that the King has other, less worldly concerns-” the new Prince of Dorne had described him as ‘mad as a box of snakes’ when Yara had last sailed south, but she was mindful that he was still Sansa’s brother ”-and as for the Lord of the Reach…”
“Yes,” said Sansa, “I have met Lord Bronn, he is…interesting.”
“He’s a cunt,” said Yara flatly.
“That is not the word I would have chosen,” said Sansa, but Yara had noted her brief, hastily smothered smile. “What is it that the Iron Islands have to trade, exactly?”
Yara gestured expansively towards the windows and Winterfell’s broken walls. "Stone, ore, and men used to working with both in foul weather.”
“And what of the raiders troubling my shorelines?”
“If we were to become allies then any Ironborn raiding your shores would be in defiance of the law and punished accordingly - the ships would be seized, and their captains flogged. The Iron Islands could even provide ships to patrol your coast to deter such pirates, or my people could settle some of your abandoned fishing villages to help defend the coast.”
At that, Sansa did allow herself to smile. “You expect me to bribe you to stop the raids?”
Yara shrugged in careless denial. ”I would like you to buy ore from me so I can pay men to be sailors and fishermen rather than pirates.” She grinned and added, “I also have more salt fish than anyone could eat in a hundred years, if that’s more to your liking.”
Sansa laughed. ”You’ve thought this through, I’ll give you that. I will need some time to consider it.”
Yara knew a royal dismissal when she heard one, so she stood while Sansa remained seated. She had never exactly been the curtseying type, so she did what she would have done with any highborn girl who looked like the Queen in the North: she took Sansa’s hand in her own, bowed over it, and brushed her lips across her knuckles.
Sansa laughed, which was the best of the reactions Yara might have anticipated. “You are sometimes very like your brother.”
“Sleep well, Your Grace.”
“And you, my lady,” Sansa replied.
iii.
The icy slush soaked through Yara’s trousers where she knelt in Winterfell’s Godswood, it seeped into the unlaced boots that she had shoved her bare feet into when she’d woken in the night overwhelmed by the need to find the place where her brother had died, the freezing snowmelt dripped from the branches above into her hair and ran down the back of her neck.
Yara scraped her fingernails through the frozen earth into which Theon's blood had soaked. She heard the crunch of light footfalls behind her. “I should have been here,” Yara said without turning around. “I should have fought beside him, saved him if I could, and died beside him if I couldn’t.”
“Theon said much the same about Robb,” said Sansa, ”and I’d give up my throne to have them both here with me now.”
“Instead I thought that taking back the Iron Islands and getting revenge on my uncle were more important than my brother’s life.”
“Come on,” Sansa gripped Yara’s elbows and tugged her to her feet, Yara bonelessly let her, “before you catch your death.”
It was a dark night, with the moon obscured by clouds, and Yara could see by their torches that Sansa had left her queensguard beyond the treeline. “How did you know to look for me here?”
"I watched you leave from my window,” said Sansa, before adding by way of an explanation, “I do not sleep much.”
“I’m sure that you don’t.” In the gloom Yara felt more than saw Sansa’s sharp, questioning gaze. “Theon did not sleep well either; he woke screaming about things that, truly, I wish neither of you had to endure.”
“I fed Ramsey alive to his dogs,” Sansa said plainly, and it was clear that the Queen in the North did not seek nor require absolution.
“I wish that Theon could have known that.”
“He did,” said Sansa. “I told him the night before the battle.”
Yara exhaled deeply. Her brother was still dead, but he’d died defending the home that he’d loved, making amends to the family that he had betrayed, and he’d died knowing that he’d outlived his tormentor, whose death, horrifying though it had been, had still been much too good for him. If there had been peace for Theon in this life then he’d found it before the end, and that would have to be enough for Yara.
Yara shuddered as she breathed out, and the shudder turned into a full body shiver. Fuck, it was cold out here.
Sansa wrapped an arm around her. “We should get you somewhere warm.”
iv.
These chambers had once belonged to Sansa’s mother and father, the queen said as servants bustled around stoking the fire, removing Yara’s boots, pressing a cup of hot wine into her hands, and draping a wolf fur across her shoulders. Sansa had felt uncomfortable occupying them at first, but the much smaller chamber she’d shared with her sister as a child was not suitable for a queen.
After the last servant had departed Sansa tucked the wolf fur more securely around Yara’s shoulders, sat next to her, and cupped her hands around Yara’s, which were slowly thawing from holding the cup of hot wine. “Theon and I spent his last night together, in his bedchamber.”
Yara raised an eyebrow. “I thought you greenlanders disapproved of that kind of thing?”
“Even if people hadn’t known what Theon had been through-” a delicate way of phrasing it, Yara thought “-they wouldn’t have cared; deep down, we all thought it was our last night. It wasn’t like that anyway. We just talked; about Robb, about growing up at Winterfell, about life after Ramsey. Theon fell asleep talking about you.” Sansa leaned forward and looked Yara straight in the eyes. “Yara, your brother loved you. He didn’t want you to die here. The hope that you would retake the Iron Islands and rule there and live, it was a comfort to him.”
Yara desperately wanted to believe Sansa, to find the same comfort in her that Theon had, if not in a shared history, then in her warm hands, clever mouth, and pretty red hair.
Yara leaned in and pressed her mouth to Sansa’s. The queen's lips were chapped from the never ending cold, but her mouth was warm and yielding. They stayed like that for a long moment; Yara not pressing, Sansa not pulling away. It was Sansa who eventually broke the kiss, touching her fingertips to her lips.
“I’m sorry-” Yara began, but Sansa interrupted her.
“It’s funny," she said, "I have been married and I have been raped, but I don’t think I have ever been kissed before.”
“I-” Yara meant to apologise again, meant to say that if it was funny at all then it was a very dark sort of funny. Instead she said, “That actually wasn’t my best effort.”
The Queen in the North laughed out loud, glanced down at where she was still holding Yara's hands and didn't pull away, and wet her bottom lip with her tongue. All the same Yara waited until Sansa nodded and whispered "yes" before, grinning wolfishly, she leaned in and kissed her again.
v.
The seat in front of the fire was just wide enough to allow Yara to recline with Sansa half next to her and half atop her, both of their lips swollen from kissing. Sansa broke the kiss, and Yara ran her fingers through her long, red hair where it fell about them. “This is not how I expected this visit to go.”
“If my bannermen could see us now…” said Sansa, a smile in her voice.
“I would prefer that they didn’t,” said Yara. “I have no desire to end my life at the end of a Northern noose.”
“I would not allow that to happen,” said Sansa, pressing her mouth to Yara's throat and nipping at the soft skin she found there. “They might even be relieved to discover that I am not as frigid as they fear.” She pushed herself up on her elbows and huffed. ”Winning the North its freedom bought me more time than I might otherwise have had, but my failure to take a husband troubles my Lords.”
“Surely they understand-?” Yara began, but of course they understood, they just didn’t think it mattered, at least not enough. Fucking men, they were the same everywhere.
“I made myself a queen knowing that I would have to birth an heir, and it isn’t as though I didn’t know what came before that. I thought that I could do it, and I can, I will. I just can’t- not yet.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” said Yara, reaching up to stroke Sansa's cheek, she brushed the falling tears away in silence because what else was there to say, she could no more change the nature of monarchy or child making than she could the tides.
“Sometimes you really do remind me of Theon, Yara.”
“Mmm?”
"Yes," said Sansa, “I felt safe with him too.” Yara kissed Sansa's cheeks, the corners of her mouth, her throat, venturing no lower than the beginning swell of her cleavage. “What about you?” Sansa asked when they broke apart.
“What about me?”
“Do your people expect you to marry?”
Yara would usually have dismissed such a question with a joke, but this time she gave it serious thought. “Marry, not necessarily; breed, yes. Although there is always the temptation to just let the Greyjoys die out. We have, historically, been a very disappointing family.”
“That’s not true,” said Sansa. “Theon was not without his faults-" Yara snorted at that "-but the last time I managed to sleep through the night was when sharing my bed with him." Sansa's gaze flicked away from Yara to where her bed lay, piled with furs, warm and inviting. “I do not think that we should undervalue those who bring us peace.”
“Is that your way of asking me to stay the night, Your Grace?” Yara asked teasingly
Sansa raised her chin, and even with her hair mused and her lips swollen she could look proud and regal. “I suppose it is.”
“Okay.”
They stood, flushed and dishevelled, and Sansa raised her hands to the ties of the gown she was wearing. Yara turned her back, and tried to draw out what was basically shimmying out of her trousers and deciding that she could sleep in her shirt and underthings. She had pretty much made her mind up that Sansa was definitely messing with her when they queen cleared her throat and Yara turned around to find Sansa wearing a long nightgown with her dress folded neatly by the fire.
They got into the bed, lying side by side staring at the ceiling beams for an awkward moment, until Sansa rolled to face away from Yara, who after a momentary hesitation followed, gently touching Sansa's hip. Sansa breathed out, relaxing back into Yara's arms. Some of the tension seeming to leave Sansa's body in a way that it hadn't even when her tongue had been in Yara's mouth. Yara pressed her lips to the back of Sansa's neck and smiled.
“Good night, Yara.”
“Sleep well, my Queen.”